Barnaby shot her a glance almost of dislike. “Sometimes you are too damned clever for your own good.”
“Better to be clever than jackass stubborn,” she snapped. “Lamb is right: if someone is trying to kill you, you should listen to him.”
Barnaby glared at Lamb.
Lamb shrugged his shoulders and murmured, “I may have, ah, allowed my tongue to run away with me when I came upon you lying bloodied and lifeless on the ground.”
Emily didn’t understand everything, but it was obvious that both men were convinced that Lord Joslyn’s dip in the Channel had been no accident, or that this afternoon’s shooting had not been a chance incident. They believed that someone was trying to kill him. Her heart sank, knowing who would be their leading suspect.
Like everyone else, Emily knew that Mathew had been furious at having the title snatched from his hands. Was he attempting to murder his winning rival? Mathew Joslyn could be arrogant and autocratic and when aroused he had a vile temper, but did that make him a murderer? Ordinarily she would have laughed at the notion, but seeing the expressions on the faces of the men before her, she admitted that as far as they were concerned, it was not a subject for laughter.
She shivered and looked around at the few winter-bare trees that dotted the undulating countryside, uneasily aware of the easy targets they made standing here at the side of the road. If Lord Joslyn had, indeed, been marked for murder, whoever had shot at him could still be out there. . . .
“We have to get him to the house,” Emily said abruptly. “If someone is trying to kill him, standing out here with no protection will only make the task easier.” When neither man made a move, in a voice laced with sarcasm she added, “It’s a simple decision. Either remain here like grouse before a scenting hound or follow me home. Which is it?”
Barnaby sighed. “She has a point.” He glanced at Emily, and despite the seriousness of the situation and the throbbing pain in his head, he smiled. She looked, he decided whimsically, as she stood before him with her eyes flashing and her challenging stance, very much like the Amazon Lamb had called her. His Amazon, Barnaby thought possessively, and he was very sure that she was wreaking havoc with every plan he’d ever had for a long and exuberant bachelorhood.
Dizziness washed over him. He fought it off and when he felt more in command of himself, he said, “She’s right—we cannot stand around here.”
“My home is not far. Do you think you can ride that far?” Emily asked. “Or shall I go and get a farm cart to carry you?”
Thinking of the brutal jostling of a cart and his aching head, Barnaby replied, “Let’s try the horse first.”
It was no easy task, even with Lamb’s great strength and Barnaby’s willingness to get himself on his horse, but they managed it. By the time they had him firmly in the saddle, Barnaby’s face was even whiter and his wound was bleeding more heavily.
Dizzy, and fighting off nausea, Barnaby swayed in the saddle. Through gritted teeth, he said to Emily, “This is your parade, so lead the way.”
They proceeded slowly, Emily in front, Lamb keeping his horse close to Barnaby’s to ensure Barnaby stayed in the saddle.
They turned at the two huge birches Emily had indicated marked the drive to her home. Though she was riding ahead of them, she was aware of the low-voiced and vehement conversation being held between the two men. They were arguing and she suspected that it had to do with her and their belief that someone was trying to murder Lord Joslyn. The first attempt, and she wasn’t entirely convinced there had been an attempt, had been passed off as an accident, so it was apparent they were trying to keep their suspicions a secret. Until Lamb’s unwise comments when he had first come upon Lord Joslyn and the later exchange between them, she assumed today’s incident had been an accident. But now . . .
They traveled about a half mile when conversation between the two men abruptly ceased and Barnaby called a halt.
Emily wasn’t surprised. They’d come to some conclusion, she guessed. Swinging her horse around to face him, she asked, “What?”
Barnaby was in no condition to be clever and he muttered, “I’d appreciate it if you’d keep Lamb’s unfortunate words to yourself and forget any mention of murder. I’d prefer that everyone think that this afternoon was simply an accident.”
He looked awful. A trickle of blood crept down one side of his face and his color was so pale, she was alarmed—and angry that he felt he had to ask her not to reveal their suspicions. Her mouth tightened. Good God! Did he think she was so addle-brained she’d gossip about what they suspected?
Under different circumstances Emily would have given him the sharp side of her tongue and probed deeper, but getting Lord Joslyn safely abed and having a physician examine him took precedence over everything else. Nodding curtly, she said, “I know how to keep my mouth shut. You don’t have to fear that I shall blurt out anything that was said between the three of us this afternoon. As far as I know, what happened was a dangerous accident.”
Barnaby dredged up a smile, faint and pale though it was. “Thank you.”
“Now, before you tumble out of the saddle,” she grumbled, “can we continue?”
After taking one look at Lord Joslyn and hearing Emily’s hurried explanation, within minutes of their arrival at the gracious old manor house, Walker had seen to it that Barnaby was ensconced in the second best guest bedroom—Ainsworth, unfortunately, occupied the best guest room. To her frustration, Emily had been banished from further proceedings by Lamb.
Barring her entrance and grinning at her, Lamb said, “Let me get him cleaned up before you start badgering him.” He glanced down at her bloodstained riding habit. “I suggest that while I’m working on him that you change your clothes.” Taking great liberty, he tugged on a long strand of her blond hair that in all the confusion had come loose from the black snood and his eyes twinkling, he murmured, “Go and pretty yourself—Barnaby will like that.”
Emily came as close to flouncing away as she ever had in her life. The gall of that man! It was obvious, she thought, torn between exasperation and amusement, that the servant was every bit as audacious as the master was!
With Emily out of the way, Lamb turned back to Barnaby. Despite Barnaby’s objections, together he and Walker stripped him and bundled him into a nightshirt hastily absconded from Jeffery’s things.
“Why do I always seem to end up wearing someone else’s nightshirt?” Barnaby complained from the bed.
“You have only yourself to blame,” Lamb said brutally, the image of Barnaby lying motionless on the ground still fresh in his mind. “Next time you get shot, do it at Windmere and you won’t have to worry about wearing someone else’s nightshirt.”
Walker kept his face expressionless at this exchange, but it startled him. No more, however, he admitted, than Lamb’s undeniable resemblance to the Joslyn family. Mrs. Spalding would find it all quite interesting.
“Some warm water and clean cloths would be next,” said Lamb, breaking into Walker’s thoughts. “I need to get a good look at the wound and dress it.”
Diffidently Walker asked, “Perhaps, you’d like me to send Thomas, our footman, to the village for the physician?”
Smiling with great charm, Lamb murmured, “That won’t be necessary. I have tended milord through worse events than this. If you could have someone bring me my saddlebags though, I would appreciate it.”
Walker bowed. “I shall see to it myself.”
Having forgotten that the door to her room was locked, Emily slammed painfully into the unyielding surface. Swearing under her breath, she pounded on the door and demanded, “Anne, are you in there?”
The door opened and taking in the sight Emily presented with her disheveled hair and bloodstained habit, Anne cried, “Emily! Merciful heavens! Are you hurt?”
“I’m fine,” Emily said, pushing past her. “Would you ring for Sally? I’m filthy and need to wash.”
Anne shut and locked the door behind her. “But what h
as happened to you?” Anne asked as she trailed Emily across the room.
Cornelia was sitting in a chair by the fire. Taking in Emily’s tattered and bloody appearance, she declared, “Good gad, girl! Never say that you were attacked!”
Sitting on the edge of the bed, Emily dragged off her boots. “No, I wasn’t attacked,” she said. “Lord Joslyn was—he is presently being tended by his manservant, Lamb, in our second best bedroom.”
“Lord Joslyn, here? Under our roof?” demanded Cornelia, a spark of interest in her eyes.
Anne’s hand went to her breast and she gasped. “But what happened?”
Rifling through her wardrobe and chest for a change of clothing, Emily related the sequence of events, leaving out any reference to the possibility of someone attempting to murder Lord Joslyn, not once but twice.
“Never say that a poacher shot at Lord Joslyn!” exclaimed Anne, her eyes huge in her little face.
“That’s exactly what I’m saying,” Emily said impatiently, turning away from her raid of the wardrobe with a mulberry gown made of fine wool.
A tap on the door heralded Sally’s presence. Once Sally had been sent away to fetch some water for Emily, Cornelia said thoughtfully, “A poacher, you say? Odd time and place for a poacher to be about, don’t you think?”
Emily kept her head down, apparently fascinated by the lace-trimmed shift she’d added to the items of clothing she carried over her arm. “Hmmm. Yes, it is odd, but how else would you explain it?”
Cornelia’s eyes narrowed and she studied Emily’s down-bent head. There was, she decided, a bit more to the tale than her niece was telling her. . . .
“Well, of course, it was an accident!” Anne declared roundly. “There’s simply no other explanation.”
Emily grabbed a dressing robe and disappeared behind the screen. Eager to change the subject, as she removed her clothing, Emily told them about the meeting with the investors and she was able to waste several minutes telling them what had transpired at The Crown. “We made an excellent profit,” she said, taking the silk bag from her one pocket. She handed it over the top of the screen to Anne to place in the hiding place in the baseboard. “Oh, and here is the other one, nicely filled with money for our next run.” Stripping out of the riding habit, her voice was muffled by the heavy fabric as she added, “I suspect Jeb will be leaving within days for Calais, so I don’t think we’ll be holding it long.” Tossing aside the riding habit, she said, “We did well on this run and after we pay out the necessary expenses,” Emily said, “I think the remainder should be used to hide Anne somewhere.”
Anne’s first instinct was to refuse. Guilt consumed her at the idea that the profits from Emily’s dangerous scheme should be squandered on her, but Emily and Cornelia soon convinced her that she was acting like a ninny.
“What use is having money,” Cornelia pointed out, “if we cannot use it as we see fit? Emily and I have no objections, so neither should you, you little goose!”
Sally returned with the warmed water and the next several minutes passed with Emily washing away the signs of her ordeal and scrambling into fresh clothing. A quick brush of her flyaway hair and she tied back the heavy mass with a wide green velvet ribbon.
Stepping out from behind the screen, Emily walked over and sat down in one of the chairs near the fire. She was tired, yet strangely energized, and she pushed aside the ridiculous notion that her condition had anything to do with the knowledge that Lord Joslyn was in the house . . . or that she would see him again very soon. Not that she was about to suggest they intrude into his sickroom.
Emily could have kissed her great-aunt, when Cornelia asked, “I wonder how long before Lord Joslyn will be well enough for visitors? I’d like to meet the fellow.” She grinned and arched a brow. “The sixth viscount was a fine figure of a man. Be nice to see how this new pup compares to his great-grandfather.”
The ladies of The Birches were not the only ones considering presenting themselves to Barnaby’s sickroom. Walker had kept the news from Jeffery as long as he dared, but eventually he’d had no choice but to inform the squire of his guest.
Jeffery and Ainsworth had been indifferently playing cards in the game room when Walker informed him that Lord Joslyn lay wounded upstairs in the second best guest room.
Jeffery gaped at him. “Joslyn here? In my house?” Walker nodded and explained the circumstances.
When Walker departed, Jeffery turned to Ainsworth, excitement blazing in his blue eyes. “By Jove! What a stroke of luck! Joslyn here!”
“How so?”
Jeffery bent forward eagerly. “I told you I thought there was something between that fellow and Emily. I’m convinced of it now.”
“Because he got shot?” drawled Ainsworth. “I’m afraid I don’t see the connection.”
“No, not because he got shot,” Jeffery said impatiently. “Because he was with Emily again! They were together when he was shot. What does that tell you?” When Ainsworth shrugged and looked bored, Jeffery went on. “I tell you, there is something going on between the pair of them. Though he denied it, I know she was at The Crown that night and it must have been to meet Joslyn.”
“You forget, he’d just arrived in the area—they’d never met.”
But Jeffery wasn’t about to let a little thing like that puncture the never-quite-discarded-glorious image in his head of marriage between Emily and Joslyn. “That we know of,” said Jeffery with satisfaction, nodding wisely. “That we know of.”
Jeffery rose to his feet. “If you’ll excuse me, I’m going to see for myself how Joslyn is doing.”
Leaving Ainsworth sitting at the gaming table like a day-old crumpet, Jeffery strode from the room.
Having delivered the news that Lord Joslyn was in the house, Walker hastened upstairs to warn Lamb. Knocking on the door, at Lamb’s “Enter,” he slipped inside.
Barnaby was sitting up in the bed, his eyes closed, a big bank of pillows at his back. A white cloth was draped rakishly across one part of his head; his lordship looked pale but rallying. The tray of refreshments Walker had delivered just after carrying away the bowl of bloody water and the bloodied rags Lamb had used to clean the wound, sat on a round marble-topped table next to the bed.
Lamb stood nearby, repacking the saddlebags Walker had brought him earlier. Approaching the bed, Walker murmured, “My lord, Squire has been told of your presence and will, naturally, want to see for himself that you are well taken care of.”
Barnaby opened his eyes. “Thank you for holding him off as long as possible.”
Walker bowed. Straightening, the butler asked, “Shall I send a message to Windmere?”
Barnaby started to nod, then winced as his newly stitched scalp, courtesy of Lamb, made itself felt. “Yes, I’d appreciate that.”
Walker would have left the room but Lamb stopped him. “Wait,” Lamb said. Glancing at Barnaby he asked, “Shouldn’t you send for your coach?”
Barnaby looked pitiful. “Oh, I am far too weak to travel,” he said in a low voice. Smiling bravely at Walker he murmured, “Perhaps you could tell my people to send over the necessary things I shall need for the next few days.” He slid his eyes to Lamb. “And for my manservant, Lamb.”
Walker departed.
Putting away the needle and the silk thread in his saddlebag, Lamb said, “I don’t think it’s a good idea to stay here. You can be better cared for at Windmere.”
“Hmm. I suppose, but I find The Birches charming.” Dryly, Lamb observed, “She has a ring in your nose already.”
His hands behind his head, Barnaby grinned. “Ah, but it is a very handsome ring, don’t you think?”
Once he had sent Tom the footman off to Windmere, Walker scampered up the stairs to Emily’s bedroom. Hearing his voice, Emily opened the door and whisked him inside, locking the door behind him.
Walker quickly relayed the news that Lord Joslyn would be staying at The Birches for a few days. An arrow of fright went through Emily at the news
. Was the wound worse than she had thought? “How bad is he?” she asked, her eyes worried.
Walker coughed delicately. “Not as bad as one would think.” His gaze slid to Cornelia who was watching him with avid interest. “I think there is some reason he wishes to remain here.”
Cornelia smothered a cackle of glee. She smelled a romance. Rubbing her hands together, she remarked, “Excellent! Run along now, but when you see his lordship next, would you inform him that we would very much like to visit when he is feeling better. Tomorrow morning, perhaps?”
Walker bowed. “I shall do so, Madame.”
The ladies may have given Barnaby a respite, but Jeffery wasn’t to be denied the pleasure of seeing his guest. Ushered into the room by a stoic-faced Lamb, Jeffery rushed forward, saying, “Milord! Walker has just informed me of your presence. Have your needs been met? If there is anything I can do to make your stay at The Birches more pleasant, just say the word and it shall be done.”
“Your staff has been most kind,” Barnaby said. “In particular, ah, Walker, has been exceedingly helpful.”
“Yes. Yes,” Jeffery said, dismissing Walker’s efforts. Approaching the bed, he said, “I must tell you that I am very happy to have this opportunity to correct the mistaken impression you may have of me based on our first, unfortunate meeting.”
“I had already forgotten about it,” Barnaby replied politely, wishing Jeffery to purgatory.
Jeffery beamed. “I cannot tell you how relieved I am.” He chuckled. “You must have thought me a madman bursting into your room that way and making those wild accusations.”
“The idea crossed my mind.”
Jeffery’s smile slipped a little. “Well, it is good that I can now put to rest any reservations you may have harbored about the Townsend family.”
Wanting the fellow gone before he said something he would regret, Barnaby sighed heavily and closed his eyes. Weakly, he said, “Lamb, my cordial. I feel faint.”
Rapture Becomes Her Page 14
